Next To Godliness
by BesserwisserForHire
Summary: Dean doesn't know why Mr. Novak doesn't just do his own damn laundry or cooks his own damn ravioli. / AU. Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

He isn't exactly thrilled to be here, but it's not like he's got a lot of choices. After all, if Sammy was kind enough to offer to grease up his boss a little, just for a chance to get Dean hired, well, that should be more than enough for Dean to suck his gut in and take it like a man.

Not that there's anything manly about the lemon detergent and pink dust wipe grazing his thigh, shoved into a large, pink bag wearing the company logo. It's not an ideal job, and Dean doesn't exactly need it, not to live, anyway. But working at Singer Auto only brought so much money, and since Dean hadn't been able to stay away from vintage cars even when he'd tried, it soon became evident he'd need a second income if he wanted to maintain that hobby. And Dean thought that yeah, it's worth it, dusting some rich douche's shelves twice a week, because Dean didn't have a lot else going for him.

It was him, his brother and his baby. Not an actual baby, but better. A beautiful '67 Chevy Impala, and since his dad died no one had really touched the thing. It was a shame, because the car was beautiful in a lot of ways other things weren't. It had just hurt too much, at the time, and as a year had come to pass Dean had done his best to push it to the furthest corners of his mind. He didn't need the reminders.

Then, there was something about the way the sun poured over her hood, her windows, the chrome and the leather seats. Something about this summer, the sun seeming a little warmer, the air a little sweeter, and Dean found himself in love with her again. Not in a weird way, though, despite Sam's jabs. It's just, he's a man and a man who appreciates fine cars. And one thing is for sure, it went even without Bobby's saying; if he wanted to do the car justice, and perhaps, his father, that car needed a man who could take care of her.

Since Sammy slaved through the cleaning business to pay for school, he'd helped Dean out. And so, here Dean was.

Standing in front of a fine looking piece of architecture in the better area of town. The house itself looks old, white, with decorations much too intricate for him to really understand. It's a nice apartment building, and the places within it couldn't be any less. Mostly, the people who moved out to this area were rich, old people who'd long become too brittle to live on their own in large mansions. It was more convenient, after all. There were old widows, too, who simply couldn't stand having 100 empty rooms echoing at them.

Dean could relate to that, somewhat.

But he's dealt with rich people before. He doesn't like them and it's a safe bet they feel even worse about him. He's rough around the wrong edges and completely jagged off in others. What's worse, his charm doesn't seem to bite on them at all, and there is that stubborn dirt or oil he's never quite able to wash away from his nails.

MP3-player ready in his pocket, he goes in, checks his list and hopes this old geezer will be one of those with pride. Some men, despite their bad backs and busted hips, cleaned the place out of spite, just so some lowlife like Dean wouldn't have the chance to judge them. The widows, at least the ones not immobilized by grief, usually cleaned just to have something to do. Most people though, didn't lift a finger, and Dean had cleaned enough apartments to know they could be really big and that the older and richer you were, the more useless junk you'd have, and they were usually a bitch to clean.

His list takes him to the top floor today, thankfully there's an elevator, and Dean's head is comfortably quiet during the long ride up. As he steps out onto the 14th floor, he is faced by a rather short corridor. Not searching for long and trying not to let his eyes linger on the tastelessly overdone wallpaper, he quickly finds the right door.

It's like the old bats in this place are trying to relive their glory days; making a castle out of a prison with only their money and good name left to treasure. It's sad, really, but Dean doesn't have time to feel sympathy. At least this one's a dude, so he won't have a horny, desperate cougar slobbering all over him, like Mrs Van Apfelvelt. He shudders at the mere thougth of her.

He rings the door once, waiting patiently though there's no sound behind it at first. He's learned by now that it takes the old people time to get to the door. He lets his eyes wander, searching the decor until he is jolted out of his thoughts as the sound of several locks click. Much quicker than Dean's used to, the door opens a tiny inch.

''Yes?''

Dean does a double take at the voice. It sounds young, around his age maybe, and still so awfully old. Weighed down and monotonous. It would have been almost depressing, hadn't it been for the alluring roughness of it, scraping against Dean's ears like he's been dragged across asfalt.

He fumbles for words for a moment, staring probably quite dumbly at the obscure form inside.

''I'm uh...'' He holds his company bag up, showing the logo off. ''Campbell Cleaning and Assistance, sir. I'm here to...''

''Of course.'' The form shuffles behind the door. ''Come in.''

Dean only hesitates a little, an odd twitch in his stomach as he steps inside, trying not to look as apprehensive as he feels.

Well inside, the strong smell hits him square in the face. It smells almost like a crypt. Not that Dean's been to one, but he imagines this is what they're all like. Stuffy and locked inside, the place pretty damn dark and despite its many things, it feels empty. Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, his words oddly noncomplacent, before he pulls himself together and turns to the man with a professional smile.

''Nice place you got here''

He can tell by the man's face that he knows Dean doesn't mean it, and frankly, the man looks like he'd be willing to disagree if he had. He's young, Dean notes, but like his voice, there's an ancient touch to him that kind of unsettles Dean. His eyes are heavy and blue, like, really, really blue, and as Dean finds himself fixed on them a slight uncomfortable silence sinks between them.

''I believe it was Mr. Winchester I spoke to, on the phone.'' The man says flatly. ''We went over the things that needed to be done, will you need me to revise or have you gotten the list from your colleague?''

He's scruffy, in a kinda cute way, but he's also thin in a way that doesn't look completely natural. Shoulders stiff and tight but his posture slightly hunched, it reminds Dean of a soldier waiting for orders long overdue. There are bags under his eyes Dean's seen in his own mirror quite a few times, and it leaves something familiar, something bitter, in his mouth. No matter the cause, Dean can respect that kind of tiredness, and so decides to keep the chit chat to a bare minimum.

''Must've been my brother, then'' he smiles, nonetheless. ''Yeah, no worries, Mr. Novak. I got the list. So you just pretend I'm not here and I'll handle it.''

Novak nods and regards him, his gaze a weight against Dean, staring far longer than Dean thinks is socially acceptable. He's just about to get really uncomfortable when the man departs without a word, disappearing into another room.

It only freaks Dean out a little that he can't hear his footsteps.

* * *

The more Dean works, the more unsettled he feels. He feels nervous for some reason he can't quite figure out, and while the man stays damn near well invisible for most of Dean's shift, he feels wary of him.

Mr. Novak, the short glimpses Dean's gotten, doesn't seem to be ill. He doesn't limp or groan in pain, doesn't clutch at some injury like he'd seen a lot of old people do, and his face remains - if sullen - oddly casual, and as Dean's cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, he hasn't found any pain killers either. From a brief glance, Dean would say this guy is perfectly healthy and would have no reason not to handle this on his own.

Figures. He must be one of those people, the spoiled brats who wouldn't lift a finger to clean their own filth, it was _beneath_ them to even touch a dirty dish because they were so much better than people like Dean. People who needed their ass wiped for them just because they could.

Dean doesn't liked this guy very much, he decides, and is thankful Mr Novak stays to himself, never speaking to or even acknowledging Dean's presence. He barely moves from the large sofa by the monstruously sized windows, curtains drawn, eyes invested in an ancient looking book.

Dean's schedule is pretty straight forward; check the list, do the things, and leave. He's paid an hourly rate upon a fixed rate, so at least there's security in his job. Thankfully, Mr. Novak isn't a total filth pig like some are, and it takes Dean a little under two hours to go through half the apartment.

The apartment isn't nearly as big as the other ones he's been assigned, but still haunting and empty in a way that seems excessive for a guy like him. Dean finds himself wondering about it a lot, nearly asking outright but stopping himself. It's rude to ask, though some clients are very chatty, this guy seems almost to cocoon himself. Dean just wants to get out of here as soon as he can, hourly rate be damned.

After cleaning the rest of the rooms, Dean flicks an eye over the list to see what the last few things could be. Sometimes it's dog walking, sometimes it's laundry, as they're not as much a cleaning firm as personal assitants, doing whatever the old bats and geezers can't or won't do for themselves, and he's surprised to see some of them. Reluctantly walking into the large lounge room where Mr Novak has been unmoving for the past four hours, he clears his throat to get the man's attention.

Mr Novak folds the book gently, before giving Dean a rather hard look, and Dean isn't normally one to be intimidated, but this guy is seriously freaky. Like he's got a whole arsenal behind his back, and Dean forces himself not to appear intimidated.

''Uh, Mr. Novak, about the list...'' he knows it's rude to ask, it's actually none of his business, the client could ask him to aplhabetically rearrange their books if they so pleased and had it been an old person, like usual, Dean probably wouldn't have even brought it up.

But Mr. novak tilts his head to an awkward angle to the side, peering curiously though still rather patiently at Dean, who feels a lot like a bug under a microscope.

''Is there any trouble with it?''

''Oh, no, no, not really'' Dean is quick to reassure him, because the guy actually looks concerned, and he makes a conscious effort to squash his discomfort down deeper.

''Is it making you uncomfortable?''

''No, it's, it's cool. It's just uhm, some of these things... they seem...'' he searches long and hard for the word, snapping his fingers until he finds it. ''I don't know, _excessive_?''

Mr Novak frowns and it looks so genuine, Dean starts to second guess himself. Maybe this guy really is injured.

''Is there a problem?''

''No, as I said, it's no big deal, it's just...'' Dean sighs. ''Never mind, I'm sorry I brought it up.''

Mr Novak nods as if he understands, though looks like he doesn't, really, and gets out of the couch.

''It must be lunch time.'' He declares. ''Shall we?''

Dean feels extremely uncomfortable as he follows him into the kitchen, hovering awkwardly in the doorway while Mr Novak sits down by the table. After a minute or so passing by without Mr Novak moving his gaze from the window, this one smaller than in the other room but still unnecessarily large, Dean moves inside.

The kitchen is large and nice, everything modern and very expensive looking, and he's for the first time scared of breaking anything. Mr Novak stares out through the small crack in the curtains, seeming worlds away, while Dean puts on a kettle of tea.

''It's kinda dark in here'' He comments while staring into the fridge. It doesn't contain much more than canned ravioli and some yoghurt. ''Do you mind if we... pull the curtains apart?''

Mr Novak glances at him briefly, before shrugging stiffly. It's like the guy's unfamiliar with his body, taking it for a test drive.

''I suppose not. If you wish.'' For a moment Dean thinks the lazy ass is gonna let him do that too, but surprises him by eventally standing from his seat and pulling the drapes apart, letting soft, summer sun roll into the room. The kitchen seems a lot nicer now, in the warm light. ''Like this?''

''Much better'' Dean says, relaxing a little.

Mr Novak says nothing and sits back down. Dean works in silence for a while, deciding on the ravioli because if the guy's going to be lazy, well, he's not gonna get to have a say in things.

''It looks more like a home now, doesn't it? With the light, I mean.''

Mr Novak regards him curiously for a long while, much longer than a stare normally should last, before he tilts his head in that awkward, incomprehending way.

''Are you always this talkative?''

''Oh'' Dean shrugs. ''I'm sorry. I know some clients like their quiet. I'm working on it though but yeah, I guess I'm kind of chatty and...'' And he's gonna start rambling soon.

Dean busies himself with getting the tea cup and plate out.

''It's alright'' Mr Novak says. ''I don't mind.''

Dean glances over his shoulder, the blue eyes avoiding him. It seems intentional this time and Dean finds his shoulders relax once more. This guy's like walking around pins, tense and smooth every other second. He's not really sure how to feel about it.

''You new here?'' Dean says then, pouring. ''Or just new with us?''

''I moved in just a month ago.''

''So how you like the neighbourhood? Neighbours okay? I know Ms Winston on third floor can be quite a bitch''

Once he realizes what he just said, Dean feels the blood still in his body, pure panic settling over him. But it is washed away as soon as Mr Novak grunts out a small, strange noise not quite unlike a chuckle.

''I will have to trust you on that'' he says, and Dean breathes again. ''Truth be told, I have yet to encounter any of my neighbours.''

''You ain't missing out, really'' Dean shrugs. ''I've got a third of this building, and let me tell ya, rich, cranky old widows and widowers? Not really the cosiest bunch.''

Mr Novak looks at him then and Dean feels those eyes burn into his skin. Though reluctant to meet his gaze Dean forces himself to, because if one thing, Dean Winchester is not a wuss. There's something desolate about Mr Novak's eyes, and Dean suddenly fears he's touched a nerve.

''Sorry. Inapprorpiate. Foot, meet mouth.'' He laughs nervously. ''Sammy says I do that a lot. It's a curse, really''

''It's fine'' Mr Novak looks at the tea in front of him. ''I'm not a widower, if that was your concern.''

Dean can't help but sigh in relief.

''Dodged a bullet there, huh?''

There is that strange not-quite-chuckle again.

''I suppose.''

Dean regards him for a while, ravioli puttering about in the pan, before he catches himself and gets a plate. While pouring the ravioli into the plate and finding a fork, he weighs his next words over.

''Mr Novak -''

''Castiel.''

''Gesundheit?''

Mr Novak frowns at him in that way again, like Dean is a new and very peculiar kind of stupid he can't quite decide how to react to.

''It's my name. Castiel.''

''Oh'' Dean says. ''It's... Unusual.''

Mr Novak, or Castiel, or whatever, tilts the corner of his mouth just a tiny fraction. It's more a twitch attempting to be a smile, both amusing and sad at the same time. Watching the man perform basic human actions is as fascinating as watching a baby learn to navigate the world, and Dean's never quite seen someone look so utterly confused and uncomfortable in their own skin.

''It's an angel'' Castiel says. ''The Angel of Thursday.''

''Oh.'' Dean says, because he can't seem to stop sounding like a moron. ''Thursdays are cool.''

Castiel frowns. Dean decides to save face while he can, and clears his throat, saying ''Dean. My name's Dean.''

''Pleasure to meet you, Dean'' He says like it isn't very exciting at all.

''Same goes to you, Mr. Uh... Castiel.''

Dean thinks it's not the absolute worst first impression.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean keeps doing what he does. Cleaning out the old ladies' apartments, feeding Mr. Liebowitz's innumerable, obnoxious, exotic birds, getting nearly mauled by van Apfelvelt's tiny Jack Russel terrier, organizing books for Ms. Winston, buying groceries and cooking meals for Hathaway. It's a pretty alright job, he supposes. Besides the animals mauling him and the disgusting looks from Apfelvelt, and the really racist remarks from Mr. Charleston, Dean can live with it. In any case, it's only twice a week.

Sam's doing it nearly every day, after school and on weekends, completely beat as he returns to the house. It's too expensive to get a place of his own, and since their dad died, the house had felt empty. Dean wanted out, much like Sam, but they knew it wasn't economically wise. Bobby swings by during the weekends, talking about cars with Dean as they work a little on his baby, while Sam goes on a date with Jess, and things roll around much like they usually do.

Sam complains about one of his clients, old and demented and packing a mean punch for the brittle age of 97, and Dean and Bobby can't help but laugh. Things are like normal, and Dean doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about Castiel Novak, even though he can't quite fight the stray thought drifting by every now and then.

He does his shifts at Singer Auto, picks up a few things for his car, works away in the garage to the tunes of Led Zeppelin and shares a cold beer with Sam when he gets home from school. It's not until three weeks have passed that Sam asks Dean to cover for him, as he's got a big exam coming up and needs all the time he can grab to study up. Sam's boss is understanding, a friend of the family – actually, a friend of their mother, some cousin several times removed – and since Dean needs to go shopping for the car anyway, he calls Bobby for a compromise.

Dean picks up two days from his brother and doesn't think more of it. He cooks and cleans and walks dogs and, in the case of Castiel, hangs up some paintings. Castiel seems to warm up to him, the more Dean stops by, shoulders not as stiff and his eyes not as hard, and in return Dean relaxes as that feeling he's going to get smote any second slowly ebbs away.

It becomes his favourite part of the working days. Castiel is respectful, polite and quiet, but not unresponsive, not as Dean had first thought. It turns out Castiel pays close attention to him, reacting to everything Dean does if even by just a little twitch. Eventually Dean learns to pick up on the subtle signs and realizes they've been having conversations far longer than he first thought, only not with their words.

Van Apfelvelt cops a feel, Mr. Charleston screams at the TV about immigration, Dean raises the volume on his MP3-player, bites his tongue and moves on. He gets done with the other clients a lot quicker than in the past, wanting to get away from the crazy rich people and over to Castiel already, seeming the only calm place in a storm of Russian caviar and centuries old prejudices. One day he accidentally knocks a really expensive vase off a shelf, glad that Mrs. Miller is half blind and nearly deaf or she'd have had his head.

Dean talks to Castiel more than the others, and it isn't the forced pleasantries or inquiries that are sort of included in the job. People get lonely, so he's sort of a makeshift Dr. Phil as well as an assistant, but with Castiel it's different. They talk idly about books, exchanging tips, even though Dean doesn't read very much, Castiel doesn't seem to mind and there's something soothing about listening to the other man talk about Kafka or Dostoevsky or whatever the hell it is this time.

Occasionally, Dean will talk about his car, and though it's obvious Castiel doesn't know a damn thing about automobiles, he doesn't seem disinterested. It's kind of fun, actually, to explain to someone, and Dean eventually stops thinking about the absurd tasks on Castiel's list. Though he's noticed, the more he's hung around, that the place isn't actually clean before his visits. Not like he first thought, anyway. It's more like everything's completely untouched, and Dean often finds some objects in the very same place he left them the day before. As if Castiel doesn't move an inch when Dean isn't there. Which is an absurd thought to have, so he discards it almost as soon as it comes.

It's strange, in a way the others aren't, because Castiel isn't paralyzed from the waist down like Mrs. Hathaway, nor does he have a bad back like Charleston or severe arthritis like Mrs. Miller. He's not demented or senile and though they don't really know each other, he doesn't seem like the prideful type.

Dean feels sort of ambivalent about it, because despite Castiel being pretty alright, the sheer laziness of him sits badly with Dean. He'd grown up learning to take care of himself, caring for his brother and, as his father got ill, also for him. He'd been raised to work for what he wanted and to never lay his burdens on others, so meeting someone who's too good, too self-righteous to ever lift a finger to do the menial tasks, as if the world is beneath him, well, Dean's not sure how to meld those two sides of Castiel together.

He mentions it to Sam once, who tells him it's not his job to worry about. Hell, it isn't even his job to _like _him, so why Dean's putting so much thought into it is beyond logic.

Dean agrees, pushes the thoughts back and goes on with his days.

* * *

Sam aces his exam, and though exhausted he is proud. So Bobby, Sam and Dean celebrate with ordering greasy take out and kicking back on the porch with a case of cold beer. Jess swings by and Dean watches them from the corner of his eye, wondering when Sam will get his panties untangled and just propose to the girl.

* * *

School is back to its normal stress, Sam reclaims the two days from Dean who feels oddly disappointed to see Castiel less; he couldn't help but enjoy the guy's company, despite everything. Even so, he's glad to have more time to work on the car. Just another two or three months and he'll have her ready for a test drive.

Sam mentions Castiel had asked for him, one day. Dean doesn't inquire about it, but can't quite let the thought go from his mind. Sam makes a brotherly comment about the shut in missing him, Dean throws a pillow at his head and the matter isn't brought up again.

It leaves a funny feeling in Dean's gut that he isn't sure he likes.

* * *

''Hey'' Dean says as he steps into the apartment. Something feels off as he does.

''Hello'' Castiel greets, arms slack by his sides and eyes all on Dean.

The dude has a habit of standing really close to Dean now. At first he'd stayed on his end, but the more comfortable they got, the less understanding Castiel seemed to have about personal space. Dean tried talking to him about it once or twice, but Castiel either didn't listen or didn't care. Dean never brought it up again because he wasn't entirely sure he minded.

''You look... odd.'' Dean remarks after looking him over, and Castiel shifts as if guilty of something.

He looks paler, Dean realizes, which is a big deal for a guy who's pretty damn pale to begin with.

''What's that smell?''

Castiel looks even guiltier at this, turning his face away.

''That's, uhm... I had an accident in the kitchen.''

Dean frowns, but wastes no time heading for the kitchen. The word _'accident'_ holds too many possibilities. Seeing the mess itself, it's not as bad as he thought – house fire being on the tip of his tongue – but the stove does look like it's been through some rough times. Something has been burnt stuck to it, a large mess of black crust, and the saucepan on the counter has been burnt beyond recognition. Dean cocks a brow at the other man, who shifts awkwardly to his side.

''I... tried to cook.'' He says like admitting a big, bad secret.

Dean holds up the saucepan for a better look.

''What the hell were you cooking? Hellfire?''

''Tortellini.''

Dean bites his lip as a laugh tries to surge.

''What, was it _flambéd_?''

''I must admit I'm not... well versed in the culinary arts.''

''Dude, it's _tortellini_. You just heat it up and eat it. Hell, babies can make tortellini.''

Castiel's face hardens, and Dean senses he's crossed a line. He watches him quietly, the silence a bit thicker than usual, when something seems to click in his brain.

''Dude, was this the first time you cooked?''

Castiel does his best not to meet his eyes.

''Almost.''

Dean takes a moment to take that information in. The more he does, other realizations dawn on him; like a book he's been reading for weeks and only now is able to understand. All of the oddities he had passed off as laziness suddenly start to make sense. A twisted sense, sure, but sense nonetheless.

''You haven't done a lot of things by yourself, before, have you?''

''No.'' Cas exhales, crossing his arms like he's under attack.

''You don't have to be embarrassed'' Dean says, though really, he kind of should, because rich or not, everyone should know how to heat canned food or wash a pair of pants.

''Cas...'' he says, careful not to set off the ancient rage always looming in Castiel's eyes. ''Are there other things you don't know how to do?''

Castiel glares at him, and Dean swallows, despite himself, knuckles whitening around the saucepan like a weapon in case Castiel would decide to attack him.

''You must think I'm rather pathetic'' The man says instead, face still stiff and voice still flat. ''I guess that would not be without right.''

''Well, it's... just odd, I guess.'' Dean frowns. ''I mean you're young enough. You live on your own.''

''I didn't always.''

There's something heavy to his voice, something personal and Dean isn't sure he really wants to open that door. Castiel keeps looking at him, intent and serious to a point where Dean would do just about anything to get away from it. He nods towards the table.

''Sit down and I'll make you tea.''

''It's not tea time.''

Dean rolls his eyes.

''Yeah, well, we're thinking outside the box today, okay?''

Castiel looks at him for a moment and Dean feels something sway within him. Before he can avert his gaze like a pussy, Castiel nods and sits himself down by the kitchen table. Dean works in an awkward, tense silence with the tea, preparing a kettle before sitting down.

''So.'' He says, and watches Castiel sip his tea. ''You can't cook.''

''I think we have established that''

Dean almost smiles. He doesn't think he's ever seen Castiel so embarrassed before. It's too human. Too flesh and bone and for the first time they feel equal. His smile is quickly wiped off as soon as those stupidly blue eyes turn to him, filled with humiliation and anger that twist his bones.

''So the cleaning, the laundry, the TV? All those things?''

''My family is... traditional.''

''Lots of maids and butlers running around in the ol' castle?''

Castiel looks confused for a moment.

''We don't have a castle.''

''No, I ...'' Dean sighs. ''Never mind, carry on.''

Castiel regards him warily for a while as he swallows another sip of tea.

''My brothers and I, we were raised never ... We never had to learn how to do these things. We had chefs who cooked for us, maids who washed our clothes and cleaned our rooms, butlers who bought the groceries. All day around, there was someone to take care of those things. And when I moved out I... hadn't learned how to take care of myself.''

He looks at Dean with honesty, something urgent in his eyes like he needs Dean to understand.

''It's not that I... I _want_ to learn, it's humiliating that I can't even care for myself, as a grown man, and I admit I was wary of letting you in here, the first day. I was afraid you would...''

''You were afraid I wouldn't understand?''

''Something like that.''

''Well, I don't.'' Dean shrugs. ''Honestly? I thought you were just lazy.''

''I'm sorry to hear that.''

Dean doesn't know why he feels guilty.

''So you... If I don't cook for you, you don't eat? You don't... do anything? Dude, you lived here a month before you hired us.''

''Yes. I thought, erroneously, things would fall into place. That I would just.. learn, somehow, on my own. I tried cookbooks, I tried using the laundry room but after I ruined half my clothes and several of my cooking utensils, I realized I was overwhelmed with everything. I hesitated to hire you, because I didn't want to return to my old lifestyle. I moved out for a reason, after all. I had just... I thought I would be capable.'' He lets out a disdainful sigh. ''Obviously, I was wrong.''

Dean watches the twitch in his mouth and the white ridge of his knuckles, feeling an idea form inside him much faster than he can stop it. Dean fixes things, he always has. Even if they keep falling apart, Dean picks them up, dusts them off and makes them work. He doesn't know why exactly he does this. Maybe it's because his dad was always working, maybe because he's taken care of Sam longer than anyone's taken care of him, maybe it's just in his _nature_ to do it. People, cars, it doesn't really matter and Dean has never questioned it. It's in his instincts, and his instincts are telling him right now that he needs to fix this man. No matter how ludicrous that idea really is.

''You know'' He says, after a long while. ''If you want, I can teach you.''

Castiel regards him, eyes narrowed like he's waiting for the '_but_', the catch that always trips him. People are never _just_ kind. Never _just_ nice and if they are, it's never for the right reasons.

''You can?''

''Sure. Cooking isn't hard, and I ... I get it, it can be overwhelming to do it on your own, I mean, everyone freaks out when they move away from home. It's a lot of responsibility all at once.''

But, for whatever reason, he wants to trust Dean. Castiel has looked Dean in the eyes and seen nothing evil look back. Dean is a good man. Even if Castiel doesn't actually know him, he knows that much.

His stare, as always, burns right through Dean. Makes an itch crawl underneath his skin. Then, the man turns a corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, but something like it.

''I think I'd like that, Dean.''

* * *

Dean is no Michelin star chef, himself, but he does know how to make some simple pasta sauce. After a quick jog over to the convenience store a few blocks down, he feels confident over his choice of ingredients. Surely no one can mess up this dish. Even dad had known how to make it, and dad was a mess in the kitchen. Granted, he was a mess in general, but the kitchen especially brought back awful memories of burnt linoleum and smoke filled corridors.

Castiel hovers around him, peering over his shoulder, impatiently. It's a bit childish the way he frowns. When Dean pulls out the bacon, eggs, cream and fresh fettuccine from the bag, blue eyes give no reaction. Dean smiles expectantly, but Castiel is either far behind him in his thinking process right now or not a very excited about food in general.

''Guess what we're making'' Dean prompts.

Castiel tils his head again and Dean kind of hates him for it, because damn it, scruffy shut-ins should not be _adorable. _He's a man, and men don't find anything adorable. Especially not _other _men. Castiel is frowning again, looking confused like he just rolled out of the Stone Age and Dean is asking him to define quantum physics. Dean ignores the insistent thundering in his chest and puts the ingredients down on the counter.

''Cheese sauce'' Dean says, as Castiel is just standing there. Quiet and thoughtful and creepy. ''We're making cheese sauce. Look alive, Cas!''

He snaps his fingers and Castiel jolts, scurrying to his side kind of like a dog. Holding the carton of eggs out, he nods at Castiel to take two.

''Okay, do you know how to separate the yolks?''

A deadpan stare tells him that no, Castiel has no idea how to do anything with eggs and it's dumb of him to even ask. A little exasperated, Dean realizes this is not going to be as easy as he had hoped.

''Okay, you take the egg'' He takes one egg from Castiel's useless hands, inhaling at the skin on skin contact. ''Crack it in two, like this''

Castiel stares at the one egg left in his hand, sensing by Dean's penetrating stare that he wants him to do something. After a little more of silence, his eyes darting back and forth between Dean and the eggs, he takes the one in his hand and cracks it open against the counter. Castiel watches helplessly as the shell cracks into five different pieces, little shards of egg splattered with the yolk against the counter, a gooey mess dripping from his fingers.

Dean makes sure his sigh comes with extra annoyance.

''Dude, too forceful. Look'' He puts his own egg in Castiel's hands. Without doing much thinking, he grabs the other's hands in his own, guiding them through the motion of gently tapping the egg against the counter's edge. ''Like this. Just a soft tap, until cracks form. Then…'' He presses Castiel's thumbs into the crack in the shell. Very carefully, and very slowly, helps him form a larger crack across the body of the egg, dividing the shell in two. With the help of Dean, Castiel separates it until he has two halves in his hands.

He stares at Dean over his shoulder, making Dean painfully aware of the fact that he's got his body pressed against his boss' back. Palms suddenly sweaty, he debates for a moment what to do about this. When he started breathing so heavily he doesn't know.

''Dean'' Castiel startles him out of his sudden inability to process a coherent thought. ''What do I do now?''

''Uh'' Dean clears his throat, didn't intend for his voice to sound so strangled. ''You do this, you pour the yolk from one half to the other, until all the transparent gooey stuff has fallen into the, uh, the bowl…''

Castiel does so, on his own now, but Dean's hands have yet to let go.

''Great'' He has to get a grip, pronto, because he's a _man, _damn it. ''Then you just throw it away.''

He lets go, stepping as far away from the other has he possibly can, without looking too suspicious. Castiel is still giving him strange looks as he throws the remains of the egg into the trash can under the counter, wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel in the process.

''Okay, what now?'' He says without taking his eyes off Dean.

''You – you need two eggs, actually'' Dean needs to get a damn grip right fucking _now_ or this is not going to work out. Steeling himself, he grabs a new egg before Castiel has time to move, cracks it open and has the yolk separated in no time. Castiel watches him without a word, seeming too intrigued by the art of cooking to notice that Dean is losing his god damn mind.

''Then you mix that with one cup of cream, after which you're _supposed_ to add 3,5 ounces of the cheese, but _I _say cheese is fucking awesome so we're going to add the whole bag.''

Castiel regards him as if he's not quite sure what to do with his assistant. To be honest, Dean has no idea what to do with himself, either.

''Okay'' Castiel just says, as if resigned to the fact that this is what his life's come to.

Without prompting he grabs the cream, unscrews the cap and starts looking around for his measuring cups, which Dean remembers seeing in the cupboard to the left and grabs them. Handing them to Castiel, he recieves that look again; like Castiel is studying him, right through his soul, into his marrow and still can't fully figure out what he's all about. Dean looks anywhere that isn't ridiculous blue eyes or a girly, plump mouth that a dude should so not be able to have. Really, Castiel's entire face is ridiculous.

''Okay, you do that and I'll get the other stuff ready. Think you can handle that bowl or are you gonna find a way to set it on fire?''

Castiel looks offended. ''I should be able to manage.''

''Awesome'' Dean says and nods, nods and nods like his neck just broke while getting the pans out. ''This is gonna be awesome.''

They manage the rest of the session quite well. Castiel stirs without saying anything and Dean is stiff down to his toes, absolutely _not_ glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes, because Dean is a 28 years old adult male and he does not glance at people because glancing is for _schoolgirls_.

Though he's not denying it's a nice face.

The bacon grease hisses and splatters, as if aiming for them on purpose. Castiel is not pleased at having it burn him on his exposed wrist, and Dean just chuckles at his obvious distress. Castiel eyes the pan more warily after that, like a vendetta has formed between him and the grease. Dean says that next time he'll show him how to cook the bacon in the oven and avoid such traumatizing injuries, for which the other man is genuinely grateful.

Castiel, under careful supervision, chops the bacon, pours it in with the pasta after it's done cooking, then adds the sauce while Dean sets the table. How everything turned from employer-employee into a domestic little dinner, Dean doesn't know, doesn't really _wanna _know. Just as he doesn't want to consider that he's really just supposed to come here and wash some shirts. Instead he decides that Castiel needs his help, so he's going to do that. Because it's his job and Dean is not, in fact, an ass. A jerk, maybe, but not an ass.

''Well'' Dean says as they sit down by the table and stare at the food. ''This looks delightful and not at all completely disgusting''

Castiel, bless the idiot, actually smiles.

''Thank you''

Dean opens his mouth to tell him that no, Cas, that's _sarcasm, _but at the sight of that smile, he decides against it. He's never seen such a genuine smile before, with Castiel it's usually just a weird twitch of his mouth. Now that he's actually satisfied, hell, maybe even _proud_ of this awful, awful meal, well, Dean doesn't want to be the one to take that away from him.


	3. Chapter 3

It's made clear from the start that Castiel is not to be babied, because even if he's lacking in a lot of skills he's still an adult and deserves respect. He says this in a way that has Dean feel like he's about to be hurled straight into Hell and even if he hadn't planned on being a dick, he still reassures the other that hey, he's got a younger brother, he's done this song and dance before. Castiel will be treated as he in turn treats Dean.

It would be a lie to say it isn't a little weird at first, and Castiel is obviously uncomfortable, but the more time they spend together, the easier it gets, and after a while Dean actually starts enjoying himself. It's reminiscent of the good old days when Sammy couldn't wash a shirt to save his life and everything his gangly limbs touched ended up having to be replaced. Eventually, one day, Dean took him aside and told him he was gonna teach him how to '_be a man'_, and real men could make French toast without burning off the Teflon.

Like Sammy in the very beginning, Castiel is quite a terrible cook even with Dean's guidance, but at least he stops burning things. Dean sticks to the basics, not wanting to overwhelm him all at once. It's not like the guy needs to eat fancy five course meals, and neither does he seem to want to. They find out rather quickly he has a love for hamburgers. So much love, in fact, that Castiel learns to make decent ones with a speed that surprises even Dean.

Dean shows him the ropes of laundry, too, a task that ends quite disastrously but the big mess is a good opportunity for him to sit back and watch Castiel get to know the mop. He finds out a lot of things about Castiel in the process, too, like how he likes to go on really long walks. Apparently, the first time he did so in this neighbourhood he got lost for hours until he finally managed to get a cab to take him home. Dean promises he'll teach him to drive sometime, if he wants to.

Castiel also likes languages and has an education that sort of intimidates Dean at first, but Castiel is never bragging about it. He's humble, in a sad way that screams of former subjugation. He doesn't ever talk about it and Dean never asks. Instead he teaches him about rock music, because Wagner sucks, and though Castiel doesn't seem as enthusiastic about AC/DC as Dean thinks he should be, he never complains when Dean turns the CD on.

The scruffy man – with the worst fashion sense, even Dean can tell – has a habit of hovering close to Dean. Because of this, he learns something new with every passing day. Castiel smells nice, clean and fresh, but also musky and nearly bitter, like dusty old junk in the attic; he has girly, thick lashes, too many to count. Not that Dean _would, _so whatever.

Castiel's hands are smooth because they mostly handle books and sometimes the violin, and the only part really battered is his face which is covered in subtle worry wrinkles but not nearly enough lines around his mouth. When Castiel gets angry he is downright frightening, like he's got an army at his back though he doesn't get angry often. Mostly, he's just confused about everything but patient while Dean tries his best to explain. He doesn't like being referred to as a _baby in a trench coat _even if it's true and any and all pop-culture references that fly out of Dean's mouth also fly straight over his head.

Dean makes mental notes of all these things. Gathered and collected in the part of his brain where _things he should not know but for some reason wants to _can be found and pretends they aren't really there. He's not staring, just being attentive, is all.

Dean learns pretty quickly what it's like to have your skin tingle for the first time in a while. More hesitantly, he discovers he doesn't find it unpleasant. He also learns that for being so smart, Castiel can be a god damn idiot, when one day Dean finds him sitting in the cold and the dark and ends up yelling at him for the first time. Several fuses have shot out and apparently it's been like this for days. Castiel's ridiculous lips have turned blue and even though he's wanted to cook he's been unable to.

After showing him how to change a fuse he writes down his number for Castiel to call, whenever something like this happens again. He stresses _whenever _as much as he can, because it would just be typical Cas to sit still in the dark without warm water, light or a working stove and not call him if it felt inappropriate enough.

All his groceries are ruined; a wet, stinking, soggy mess he throws out with his breath held. Dean supervises while Castiel cleans the rest of the fridge, trying not to think about how absurd it is that his own customer is doing _his_ job, and once Castiel is done he grabs him by the shoulder to drag him down to the grocery store. Castiel doesn't complain as they're walking down the street and Dean still has to let go.

* * *

It's a few months that have gone by and Dean is almost, _almost_, done with his car, that Sam brings up Thanksgiving.

''I was thinking maybe going to Jess'.'' He says a little cautiously. ''Or maybe we could have a celebration at our house?''

Dean peers at him from behind the hood, sipping his beer.

''You want Jess' parents to come to this shithouse?''

Sam fidgets.

''They're her family, Dean, and you're mine. I mean, Jess and I are getting pretty serious...''

''_Pretty_? Sam, if you don't propose to that girl soon I'm gonna have to kill you, you know that, right?''

Ignoring the dirty look thrown his way, Dean straightens and points a wrench at his brother.

''I mean it, Sammy. It's one miracle a girl like her wants to do with a loser like you – ''

''_Hey_''

''I'm just saying, man, Jess is great.'' Then, he arches a brow and adds teasingly. ''Maybe _too_ great but good thing she hasn't figured that out yet.''

Sam takes a deliberately long swig of his beer as to avoid the subject, but something softens in his eyes.

''Yeah. I know, it's just...''

''I know'' Dean says in mock compassion, nodding. ''You're a giant girl who can't get her panties untangled.''

''Why do I even talk to you?''

Dean flashes him a big grin and closes the hood, deciding he's done enough for the day. The sky is already turning a freakish orange and he hasn't had a break since it was clear, unashamed blue. As if to concur, his stomach makes a loud growl.

''Well, if she's gonna become Mrs. Jessica Winchester someday, poor girl, she's gotta let her parents meet us, eventually.''

''If that doesn't make them bolt out the door, I don't think anything will''

''Speak for yourself, bitch.''

Sam chuckles. They say nothing for a while, standing in a comfortable silence as they drink their beer, leaning against the car.

''We'll have to clean up the yard'' Dean remarks after a while.

Sam's eyes sweep over the messy, poor excuse of land before them.

''What yard?''

It's a small plate of grass, littered with old car parts and even a broken bike; the grass uncut and unruly, completely dead in big, random blotches. It's a sad sight, but the house is almost even worse. It was a nice house, once. Two story, classic, all-American family place. Over the years the blue paint had faded and flaked in the corners, things had rusted and they'd have one window on the top floor covered with a towel for almost two years because they couldn't be bothered to replace it. It really was Dean's responsibility, seeing as he had broken it when locked out after a night at the bar and was throwing rocks just a wee bit too hard.

''What good will a clean yard do if Bobby scares them off?''

Sam shrugs.

''We could try to bribe him with whiskey.''

''Yeah, right, and he'll shave, too.''

Sam rolls his eyes.

''But seriously'' Dean says. ''Why don't you travel to her folks' place?''

''They live in _Colorado._''

''So?''

''So I want to spend Thanksgiving with you!'' he shrinks a little, embarrassment on his face. ''It wouldn't be the same otherwise.''

''Dude, you're seriously gonna pass up an actual, _real_ Thanksgiving to spend it with an old, grumpy drunk and your dropout brother?''

Sam makes an extraordinary pout.

''I'm serious, Dean. I mean, I never got along with dad and... Since he died, you know it's...''

Sam fails to complete the sentence, but Dean understands.

''Yeah.'' he says. ''I know.''

They never had any real Thanksgivings. Dean stopped wanting it a long time ago, but Sam never seemed able to shake it off. He was always the first one getting excited and planning for any major holiday – and some minor ones as well – and Dean had always felt like it wasn't worth the bother. But he always tried his best, because it was what Sammy wanted, and Dean hadn't wanted much else but his brother to be happy in a very long time.

''Maybe you could come? I mean, the car might be done then, and you wanna take her for a test drive anyway, right?''

''Come with you to your girlfriend's _parents?_ What am I, a chaperone?''

''No, you're my big brother and I want you to spend Thanksgiving with us and try to have a good time.''

They engage in a minor staring competition during which Sam does his best to convey what he doesn't say and Dean knows his brother's about to break out the puppy eyes, and there was never really any chance of him winning this argument.

* * *

Jess had agreed to go a few days in advance to help her parents prepare the dinner which was apparently quite a huge thing in their family. It all made Dean uncomfortable – to be honest, he never did fit in anywhere and despite teasing his brother, he didn't want to make a bad impression on what could one day become his in-laws – but Sam deserved to be happy. So Dean sucked it up and decided to tackle Thanksgiving like a man; with copious amounts of pie and enough whiskey to eat through the floor of a submarine.

They never had a normal childhood, never had normal relationships with their next of kin, all they really had was each other and it had taken a damn funeral to bring them back together in the first place. This was their first real chance to have a real family celebration, and not just eating turkey sandwiches in front of the TV with cheap corner store whiskey on the side. It was worth a shot.

The entire drive up, Sam complains about the old mullet rock blaring out of the radio, along with his brother's awful, awful singing. As much as he raises the volume to spite Sam and drown out his bitching, it's also a vain attempt to drain out the nagging feeling in his gut. A thought that had first come out of nowhere until he realized it had been churning at the back of his head for days; ever since he made the decision to go to freaking _Colorado. _The nineteen hour drive would only prove to worsen the feeling, as it gave him enough time and not enough distraction not to let it grow.

It's only after they've gone all the way through Nevada and nearly halfway into Utah, that Dean allows himself to wonder if Cas will do okay.

''So glad you could come!'' Mrs. Moore greets them with wide arms, tacky Thanksgiving get up already at the go, Mr. Moore giving them a friendly smile and crushing hugs.

Dean manages not to say anything inappropriate or do anything stupid, even without Sam's glances. Soon enough he realizes that his brother isn't just on his best behaviour, but on no real behaviour at all.

''Dude'' Sam whispers and jabs his brother in the side. ''What's with you?''

''Huh?'' Dean blinks as if waking up. ''What?''

''You've been Dean in the sky with diamonds since we passed the state line.'' Then, with his patented Sammy Winchester _I Give a Crap _Pout, he asks ''Are you okay?''

Dean rolls his eyes.

''I'm fine''

''But?''

''Nothing?''

''_Dean_''

''Dude, it's nothing!''

Sam won't let him off the hook, and Dean is getting antsy under that stupid stare.

''It's…'' He makes a face. ''… just Cas.''

''Cas?'' Sam is utterly confused at first; looking like he's trying to figure out if it's a person or a band or maybe even a type of food, until his face twitches in recognition. ''Mr. _Novak_?''

Trying to melt several things at once, Sam's face takes on several grimaces of varying emotions and it is as unsettling as it is amusing. They walk deeper into the house. Lead absently by Jess who is talking about _something_, but either doesn't notice or doesn't mind that they're not paying attention. She's gesturing towards the walls so Dean thinks she might be talking about the house.

''It's just… he never has guests – ''

''When _you're_ there''

''—he doesn't even _talk _about people and there are like, _no_ pictures of anyone in his apartment. Like, none. Nada. Zilch.''

''That you've _seen_''

Dean tries very hard not to reach for the vase coming up on his right and use it to bludgeon his brother beyond recognition and, possibly, life itself. Mostly because it's a very old looking vase and he thinks Mrs. Moore wouldn't be all too pleased with him if he did.

''You ever wonder why he needs our help when he's not really the typical clientele?''

''Wait'' Sam says as if he just thought of something very important for the first time. ''You call him _Cas_?''

''Dude, not important!''

Sam puts up his hands in surrender. ''Fine! Sorry! But, yeah, I guess I wondered once or twice? I just assumed it was convenient for him.''

''So did I, but then I found out the guy can't even cook.''

''Can't or won't?''

''He seriously _can't_, or, couldn't, until I taught him – ''

''You what?''

''The guy's been butlered on since he was born! No one taught him how to take care of himself and now he's suddenly on his own, you know?''

His brother has the look of a person who really doesn't know but really wants to, and is thinking very hard to come to some sort of understanding of what on Earth Dean's gotten himself into _this_ time, and whether or not he should be freaking out about it.

''That's... that's actually kind of sad.'' Sam decides after a long while. ''And _weird_. Wow.''

Dean shrugs one shoulder as if it's no big deal, when it is in fact a very big deal that he's getting his boss to do his own job and even that he seems to be on a nickname basis with him when Dean is rarely on any kind of basis with anyone.

''But you taught him?'' Sam continues, giving Dean a look he doesn't quite understand.

''Yeah, just the basics.''

''Well, then he should be fine, shouldn't he?''

Dean's face stiffens, but he doesn't feel like treading any deeper into the subject. Sam has the annoying habit to try to untangle knots that are better left alone. Dean prefers his knots shoved deep down where he won't have to acknowledge them, and having Sammy go Freud on his ass on Thanksgiving is nowhere near Dean's idea of a good time. He's uncomfortable as it is, feeling tense in the Moores' house as if every pair of eyes is expectantly judging him. It's probably nothing, but all the same, Dean might be a jerk to his brother a lot of the time, but he doesn't want to spook the Moores off by acting weird tonight.

''Sam! Dean!'' Mrs. Moore pops up by their side like a ghost and Dean tries not to let it remind him of someone. ''Dinner is ready!''

* * *

He eyes them with jealousy all evening, but tries to make his smile convincing. It does feel good, better than he expected. Once the whiskey kicks in everyone gets more relaxed, and Dean plays with the fantasy that for a moment this could be _his_ family. That maybe one day when hell freezes over he could get the same deal. The long term thing, the stable ground. Something like _normal. _

It's a stupid hope, but he nurses it anyway.

Dinner is fantastic, and if Jess has learned anything from her mother by way of cooking, Dean will make sure Sam marries her even if he has to do so at gunpoint. At the same time that the food leaves him full and content, the whiskey keeps him warm and the people ain't half bad. Dean is, against all prior expectations, enjoying himself a whole lot.

Dean always got curious what a real family looked like.

He's dreamt about it, imagined himself at a dinner table. Dad at one end, mom the other. Uncles and cousins and grandparents on each side. Awful singing, embarrassing anecdotes, boring jokes and kind smiles.

It feels good. It feels borrowed.

But it's nice.

* * *

The sweet is followed by bitter, hand in hand. The whole evening Dean can't help but think about ridiculous blue eyes and an awkward not-quite-chuckle.

He keeps checking his phone, trying to be discreet, but eventually Sam notices, following his gaze, giving Dean a _look_, but otherwise doesn't breach the subject. It's unwise to poke a bear, and Dean is grateful.

Right before midnight, Dean's phone flashes to life, and his text message signal beeps through his pocket.

Dean reads it a thousand times over, chalking the warmth up to that one whiskey too much.

_Happy Thanksgiving, Dean._

_- Castiel_


	4. Chapter 4

The weekend is over almost as soon as it began. Jess drives her own car back, and they leave before the family can smother them in too many bear hugs and awkward kisses on the cheek.

Sam says he's thinking of moving in with Jess, next semester. Dean only half fakes his smile.

He's happy for him.

No, really. He is.

He was just hoping Sam wouldn't leave. Sure, he knew, always knew deep down that it would happen, because it always happened, to everyone. But for him, especially, it seemed to occur more than what could be considered natural. With time he'd come to think of it simply as '_The Recurrent Theme To Dean Winchester's Life'_.

But Sammy deserves a family, a girl who stands him, a job he loves. He deserves it all, and Dean's worked his entire life to make sure his brother would get everything they hadn't had as kids. As much as he dreaded this day, he worked his ass of to make it come, because he also knew that it'd make his brother happy.

He just wishes he'll get to share a slice of that life.

Campus isn't far away, not really. And it's not until after New Year's, anyway, so they still got time, and it was inevitable, and Dean knows all this. He still can't help but down a second whiskey when he gets home and clench his jaws whenever Sam brings it up.

We'll come over, you're welcome, we'll call. It's just a car drive away, Dean.

Yeah, Dean thinks.

It's always just that.

* * *

Dean slings the company bag over his shoulder, straightens his collar and heads up the elevator. For some reason, he can't quite shake the nervousness off himself; fingers trembling slightly even as he knocks on Castiel's door.

It takes far longer than it should. Castiel usually opens pretty quickly, even more since they'd gotten to know each other better, but today he's taking so long Dean almost considers knocking again. He's just raised his fist when he hears the many locks unclick.

''Oh'' Castiel says, as if surprised.

''Oh?''

''I... I forgot... I take it your time off has ended?''

Dean nods, narrowing his eyes.

''Yeah. Thanksgiving is over so… back to work''

Castiel opens the door after another moment of silence. Dean feels the discomfort sink its teeth into him the moment he steps through the door.

''It looks... clean'' He says after a brief sweep of the room.

''Thank you.''

''Wait… You did this?''

''Should I not?''

Dean isn't sure if he has the right to feel a small tinge of pride, but he allows it anyway. Squashing down the stupid smile that tries to climb onto his face, he gestures with his hand to a corner of the room still slightly dusty.

''You missed a spot''

Castiel just winces.

''Hey, it's okay. That's what I'm here for, right?'' Dean tries to look encouraging while shrugging off his jacket. ''I gotta say, Cas, I'm impressed to see the place still in one piece. Honest, did the temp help you?''

He winks at him but Castiel doesn't pick up on the joke.

''I didn't have one.''

''What?''

Castiel shrugs, visibly tensing.

''It felt strange. I have... grown to like your presence and having another person sift through my home feels odd.''

For some damn reason, Dean starts smiling.

''How was Thanksgiving?'' Castiel says and Dean snaps out of it.

''It was great. Me and Sammy went up to his girlfriend's relatives, in Colorado.'' The other nods, and they stare at each other for a moment. Dean's clothes seem awfully warm, suddenly, his own skin constricting.

''How... uh... how was yours?''

''It was quiet.''

''Oh.''

They keep staring, and Dean's breath is picking up more and more, but he doesn't want to be the first one to look away.

''So, what needs fixing around here?''

They'd since long abandoned Castiel's usual list, instead going through the steps of teaching him all the things, in order, and as Castiel learned, they took to doing what needed care for the time being. Castiel looks at the floor, almost bashful.

''Would you care for some tea? Or ... coffee?''

Dean can't stop his stupid smile.

''Love some coffee.''

Dean follows him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter while Castiel quietly prepares the ground beans. After he's been staring at them unblinkingly for a while, he glances up at Dean.

''I uh. I don't actually know how to...'' His hands make an awkward gesture.

''Oh. Oh, okay. Uh, do you want me to show you?''

Dean's never really seen Castiel drink coffee, so it surprises him somewhat that he actually nods. He's never asked Dean to make any for him, and he always pegged him for the tea kind of guy. Not that he minds; there's a sly dog part of Dean's brain that jumps on the opportunity. Any kind of inconspicuous closeness, actually. Which Dean hasn't tried to analyze because he knows where _that _road leads.

''Okay, so. Are you having any?''

''I could try.''

Dean shrugs and grabs the pot handle.

''We fill this with water'' He says, running his fingers under the tap until it feels cold enough. ''The colder the water, the better the coffee. And as you can probably figure, the cleaner the maker, the better.''

Castiel nods, narrowed eyes never leaving Dean.

''So we're two people, usually best to make double that. So we pour until this little symbol here, number four, and then we take a filter...'' Part of what Dean likes about their domestic adventures, the part he's determined to keep to himself until the end of time, is that Castiel hangs on his every word like it's the most important lesson he'll ever learn. Like Dean is the most important person. Right then, that moment and that place, Dean is everything. Even if just for a moment, someone thinks he's important. ''Then we use one scoop per cup, then we add an extra, or else it's gonna taste like god damn spring water.''

Castiel keeps his eyes on Dean's mouth, the other feeling suddenly self-conscious, and he can't help but swallow as he pours the grounds into the filter.

''Then you flick it on and wait''

Castiel looks at him for a moment, before realizing what Dean is implying, and with a look of uttermost concentration flicks the machine on.

''I uh...'' Dean clears his throat, thinks about moving but doesn't. ''So, Thanksgiving not a big thing in your family?''

Castiel seems to tense then, and Dean silently curses himself. It was on rare occasions Dean would, mostly accidentally, bring up family. As soon as he noticed that Castiel always stiffened, always winced away from the topic, he stopped asking about it. Dean could relate; his family was a jar of bees that was better left alone. It was fitting, in a way, since Castiel wasn't terribly good at being comforting and Dean was even worse at being comforted.

''We participate in rather large celebrations. It's important to give thanks to the Lord.''

''Your family's religious?''

''Well'' Castiel gives him a look like white light that burns through his marrow. ''I _am_ named after an angel.''

Dean chuckles to cover up his shiver.

''I guess.''

''Yours?''

''Huh?''

Castiel's stare withers, but he remains patient. ''Is your family religious?''

''Oh.'' Dean's throat goes unpleasantly dry, like it always does when he has to think too far, too long, about what he had and what he lost. The flicker of warmth he had dancing through his skin is suddenly replaced with barbed wire. ''Uh… Mom believed in angels. But we're not exactly… devout.''

''You're not a believer. ''

Dean scoffs then Tries to smile. He's not sure he succeeds, but if not, Castiel doesn't mention it.

''I say that if there really is a God who lets all this shit happen and doesn't do a thing about it, then he's not a God I'd like to get behind.''

Castiel's mouth tightens. At first Dean thinks he's offended, thinks, this is it. Great job, Winchester, you've reached the end of the line. But then Castiel's face softens, and when he speaks his voice is flat, as if reciting something from a manual.

''God has not been kind to you''

''I guess not.''

''I'm sorry to hear that, Dean. You deserve a benevolent God.''

Dean laughs again but it's an empty sound.

''Coffee's done'' He says, voice rough, and starts pouring two cups as he escapes away to the kitchen table.

Castiel stops him with a hand that burns on his shoulder, a touch of hot, searing fire. Despite this, Dean leans into it, just a little.

''Let's go to the balcony'' Castiel says and Dean turns to stare at him with his mouth half open.

''You have a _balcony_?''

''Yes. I like to watch the stars.''

''Stars. Right.''

Dean follows him out, not sure what to expect and still surprised at the view that stretches out beneath them. The balcony is overlooking the finer houses of the area and the skyline is made of tall buildings, like pillars that disappear far off in the distance. The sound of traffic is heard as far away, the sky too blue as it lies open above them.

''I tried to clean up here, before your return. I'd been hoping you'd... sit here with me.''

Dean gives him a little smile.

''You just want to get out of cleaning, don't you?''

Castiel chuckles a little. It's a completely innocent sound that shouldn't make Dean's heart constrict the way it does, shouldn't make his stomach lurch but at the moment he finds he doesn't care.

They sit down on soft chairs, overlooking the city in a comfortable silence. Castiel takes only very small sips from his coffee, seeming somewhat indifferent about it, but Dean drinks his own with delight. All the while he can't help but steal glances from out of the corner of his eye.

''What's your family like?'' Dean asks then, with no idea why. It just feels like that sort of moment.

At least, until he registers the tightening of Castiel's jaws; how his head sinks just the tiniest bit. ''Oh, ah, sorry'' Dean grinds out. ''Personal.''

''It's… fine.''

The silence is a bit heavier now. Though, it's not as much a tension between them, as a tension in Castiel. Dean waits quietly for it to pass, fidgeting in his seat, and it startles him completely when Castiel decides to speak again.

''I have many siblings.''

''They all named after angels?''

''Yes.''

''Oh. Okay. Cool.''

They're quiet for a little while after that. It's Dean who eventually decides to break the silence, mouth running without stopping to consult his brain. ''How long has it been since you've seen them?''

''A few months now. Some I haven't seen in years, like Michael. He's too burdened by his work. Gabriel left two years ago and Anna moved away to start a family shortly after that. Lucifer is...'' Castiel thinks his words over carefully. ''… away. Hester still lives at home. ''

There's a lot to pick up from that sentence, but Dean's brain locks onto the most obvious tidbit of information. ''Your brother is seriously named _Lucifer_?''

Castiel smiles with the practiced ease of a person who's heard the same joke a thousand times.

''Balthazarcalls him Lucy.''

''_Bal_thazar?''

''My best firend. My _only_ friend.'' He shifts a little, suddenly closer than he was just a minute ago. ''Or… he was.''

''Past tense, huh? That can't be good.''

''He moved away. Said California was choking him.'' Castiel shrugs and takes a very mechanical sip of his coffee. ''My family didn't like me seeing him, so they were relieved.''

If Dean watches his throat work the liquid down, well, that's beside the point.

''Balthazar is very... free spirited and my family thought he would drag me into his debauchery.'' A conflict between spite and admiration whirls through his body language. ''He calls every now and then, though.''

''Must be nice, having a big family'' Dean says. ''I only have my one brother. I mean, I love him, but sometimes I just wonder what it'd be like. To be a big family, I mean.''

''What about the ones you spent Thanksgiving with?''

''Oh, that's Jess' family. Sammy's girlfriend.''

''Ah'' Castiel nods. ''You're still not acquainted, I take it.''

''Yeah, I just. It's… It's like riding a bike for the first time, you know?''

Castiel frowns. ''I've never tried.''

''You never rode a _bike?_ Cas, buddy, you are one deprived son of a bitch.'' Dean pats him lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head. ''We gotta get you outside someday.''

''I get plenty of fresh air out here.''

Dean just rolls his eyes. Nobody speaks for a while, Castiel staring expectantly at Dean – or perhaps just staring in general, which he seemed fond of doing – while Dean sips his coffee.

''Dean''

''Huh?''

''You were speaking of families. And… bikes.''

''Oh'' Dean swallows, takes another sip to stall for time. ''Yeah, uh. Right.''

What it is with Castiel's pressing gaze, Dean can't be sure. Just that something about it makes him want to tell him everything, makes him feel like he could actually trust someone, for the first time. Maybe, for some reason, a little part of him wants Castiel to know. Bobby would roll his eyes if he could see him now, he thinks with a bitter smile.

''My mom… died. When I was a kid. Then dad got liver failure about a year ago.''

''I'm sorry''

''Eh, we weren't really a family before that. Dad served in the war and he got ... well, he had issues. Our childhood wasn't exactly ideal. Dad was a paranoid bastard and I just always got to take care of things.''

''You never had the white picket fence.''

Dean chuckles dryly. ''Guess not''

''Do you want to?''

Dean looks at him. Castiel peers back with so much honesty in his eyes that Dean stumbles on his breath.

''I... I guess... yeah.'' He clears his throat. ''Yeah, I kinda do, actually. Maybe not the whole nine yards but I'd like something... normal, you know?''

Castiel nods.

''I think so''

Dean regards him a little longer, and it seems like something's clicked, between them, like the final barrier Castiel had put up is shed. Dean isn't sure if he moves closer or if Castiel does, but they're soon shoulder to shoulder, Castiel letting out a small sigh.

''Do you miss your family?'' Dean asks after a while, his cup empty but still in his hands, and Castiel watches his fingers move.

''Very much.''

The other man tilts his head, and Dean jumps slightly as it lands against his shoulder but soon enough, he relaxes. Hell, he might even lean into the touch, a little.

They sit in silence for the rest of the hour.


End file.
